What Doesn't Kill You (Makes You Who You Are)
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary: The accident changed everything Aster thought he knew about life, and about himself. It takes time, and the support of good friends, to find himself again. It's only then, without meaning to, that he finds Jack. Modern-day AU, Jackrabbit pre-slash.
1. It's a Tidal Wave of Everything to Come

Soooo, I'm supposed to be writing the next chapter of Hope and Ruin, and then this plotbunny bit hard, so I thought, why not, it'll be a one-shot... Nope. Hello multichapter. I'm going to try and take turns working on both fics until finished, so please bear with me, and thanks for your patience.

And now without further ado...

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What is to give light must endure burning.

- Viktor Frankl

The Dream always starts the same. The car, the road, the wide blue sky. Aster remembers it all vividly, his artist's eye capturing the moments leading up to the accident; preserving them like fossils of memory, the last seconds of his normal life.

The twist in the road, the oncoming car that lost control, the helpless screech of tires, the hoarse shriek of tearing metal, the tinkling cascade of shattering glass...

Aster always awakens there, at the exact instant of impact, the vision of horror fading in the thin, grey light of dawn. The demons do not flee though, no, they lurk around the edges, curled into every corner and shadowy nook, taunting Aster, teasing, reminding him of what was, what could never again be. Most days he could ignore them, could carry on chin up, head held high. Other days the struggle to get out of bed was more than just the usual physical tussle of hauling himself into the nearby chair, arranging his useless legs out of the way of the wheels before navigating around the bed to the attached bathroom. Some days, he fought with his own mind more than his broken body.

The days after The Dream were always the worst.

The insurance took care of the hospital bills, at least. Aster hadn't a clue what the damage was in the end; what the final cost was for the weeks spent healing enough for physiotherapy, and then the months spent getting himself back into shape and relearning how to function in a world meant for legs, not wheels. The insurance company had written several fat checks, and turned him loose back to the remnants of his life with little more than a couple months food and rent in his bank account and no idea how to piece things back together. Aster had always been strong, in good physical shape, which allowed him a measure of manoeuvrability that others in his position lacked, and as long as his arms worked he could still sketch and paint and feasibly earn a living. He found though, that his once-comfortable tiny flat was now a cage, too small by half to accommodate his lacking mobility. There were also no elevators for access, only stairs, so he was a virtual prisoner in his own home, unless Nick took pity and carried him down to the lobby. His immense mortification at this ensured that enlisting his oldest friend's help became an emergency last resort only. The apartment itself was shoe-box sized, and Aster was constantly banging into walls, and scraping his knuckles on the too-narrow doorways. Being a renter, Aster was not permitted to renovate for better access, not that he could have afforded it even if he had been. Coming home had meant to signal a return to normalcy, or at least the new version of it he'd have to endure from here on forward, but Aster found himself feeling restless and encumbered in ways that had nothing to do with his physical limitations. The art that had always flowed through him like a river of colour felt dry, empty. Aster had always pinched pennies, budgeting harshly, 'starving for his art' as his friends had always joked, but he was able to make a meager living doing what he loved. Mostly abstract pieces, some modern that claimed to be socio-political statements, Aster's art was always meant to have a voice, to be loud and to be heard. Now, that voice was barely a whisper.

Aster had despaired, his only source of income gone. It was Tia who'd dragged him out of it, feather earrings brushing her graceful neck, the space between delicate brows and dark eyelashes lit up in a cacophonous rainbow of coloured eyeshadow, her peacock-painted nails gently stroking Aster's arm. She'd fed him tea, the best of her special blend, but mostly sat and listened for one long, rainy Spring afternoon. She'd taken Aster's grief, his pain, his hopelessness with the grace and humility she carried in spades. Then, she'd kissed his cheek as she'd risen to leave; smudging a perfect lip print in lavender onto his skin, promising him that even in dark times, the memories of happy things could be a balm, a reminder that things would get better, as bad things always do. It wasn't much, cold comfort at most, but something about her words had ignited and long-forgotten ember in the bottom of Aster's soul.

Once, while drunk around the huge old table in Nick's kitchen; hand-made by Nick himself that had seen more home-cooked meals and friendly games of poker then one piece of furniture likely deserved, Sandy had said that dreams could not die, only transform.

That night, Aster worked himself into a fever, painting for the first time since before the crash. The hurried, almost smudged oil painting of a warrior maiden, wings spread wide and dual swords in hand, feather a riotous mass in hues of viridian, violet, teal and gold sold for more than eleven times what any single piece of Aster's art had ever sold for before. When asked by the buyer later about his inspiration, Aster had merely shrugged and declared her the Queen of Fairies, Guardian of Memories.

Will there be more, Aster had been asked.

As it turned out, yes there would be, and so, Nick became the The Inventor, Guardian of Wonder, and Sandy became The Sandman, Guardian of Dreams. The paintings sold well, and the pressure of Aster's finances eased, and for the first time in months, he felt himself begin to look forward into the future, instead of always back to the past. For the first time since he'd awoken in the hospital he began to make plans again, to set goals, to feel anticipation. For the first time since the chair, Aster felt hope. Then, Sandy came to him with an idea; and a back-story for the proud, noble creatures that had been spun from Aster's paintbrush. It took time to hammer things together and for Aster to learn to work in inks and on tablets, but time had been bought with the previous sales and slowly something new coalesced in existence. One last sale of one last painting garnered enough cash to kick-start the project into publishing, and before long, 'The Great Guardians' was the fastest-selling graphic novel in the country. As for the last painting, well, it had started as a joke, Bunnymund being the unusual name that it was, but something had felt almost cathartic for Aster, creating the The Pooka, the Guardian of Hope in his own image. Well, it had made Sandy laugh, at least.

Two years passed before Aster had even realized, the acknowledgement coming one morning as he once again skinned his knuckles on the too-narrow bathroom door. Sucking one bloody joint into his mouth, Aster found himself looking around his flat properly for the first time in a long time. Aster had always been on the poorer side of middle class, never homeless or wanting but only ever just keeping his head above water. Looking at the tiny living space, it occurred to Aster for the first time that he was successful in ways he'd never been before, and that he could have more if he wanted. Aster has a large amount of cash squirreled away, for the metaphorical rainy day, and a soul-deep loathing of perpetually bruised knuckles and the indignities of being carried up and down the stairs to his own damn walk-up. It's Nick that finds him the number, but it's Aster that makes the call. Tia sits with him, nursing a tea as he describes his situation to the woman on the end of the line. By year's end, the ground is broken and the foundation is laid for what will be Aster's new home. The smiles on his friend's faces tell him they couldn't be prouder of him, for bouncing back, for keeping himself in the face of devastating loss.

When he moves in the following Spring, Sandy gives him the entertainment system to end all entertainment systems, signing in his quick, sloppy fashion that all good artists need a chance to kick back and be entertained by someone else's creativity sometimes. Tia kisses his cheek, gifting him with a ruby-red lip print and no less than three lovely afghans she'd hand-crocheted over the last few months. It is Nick though, that brings Aster to tears when he presents the table. It's a large table like Nick's own, carved of solid wood in patterns of blooming flowers and trailing vines, with a set of six heavy chairs to match. It's a one of a kind masterpiece, and the nicest thing Aster had ever seen Nick make, and Aster knows that soon it will be the centerpiece and birthplace for a thousand new happy memories, moments of wonder and brand new dreams. Suddenly, Aster can't wait to for each new day, every dawn bringing him someplace new and exciting, perhaps even more so than his life pre-accident. The Dream comes with greatly reduced frequently now, and when it does it hangs over him with much less ferocity than it had in the past. In front of him, Aster can see a brand new future stretch on into the distance. Perhaps it is not what he'd imagined for himself ten years ago, but it is far more than he'd believed he could have lying in that terrible hospital bed, numb from the waist down.

Of course, even shiny new houses aren't perfect. Aster's small apartment had been just next to downtown, within walking distance of practically everything, and everyone he cared about. While the large bungalow boasts widened hallways and doors, lowered counters, smooth hardwood floors and even an elevator to the downstairs studio/workroom, with its large windows and walkout onto a lovely terrace, the house is located further in the suburbs. It's not a problem mostly, as there are handicapped taxies available, and Aster had been thinking anyway of purchasing a car converted for hand-operated gas and brake, but in the meantime Aster found himself stumped for the one thing he hadn't thought of.

Groceries.

His old apartment had been so close; his friends had just stopped by with anything he needed every couple days. Now, while not too far away to visit, he was far enough off the beaten path that asking his friend to bring him groceries was impractical and rude. The handicap taxies were expensive and never arrived on time, and Aster preferred to avoid them as much as possible, feeling they were a method of transport only slightly less uncomfortable than being carried had been, and thus were relegated to a last resort. The nearest store was far enough away to be difficult to travel to and from on his own every couple of days, considering Aster was limited to what he could carry in his lap, and possibly in a pack slung over the handles. Thus, Aster found himself caving to a grocery delivery service. It was all very simple; the order could be placed by phone or online, and delivered the next day. Aster felt a little guilty, seeing as he was much more able to care for himself then he had been those first dark days out of the hospital, and that perhaps he was taking a service away from someone how needed it more, but he quickly rationalized that he was a paying customer, he deserved the luxury of not having to roll himself up the steep hill on Shetland Street with a lapful of perishables, and he was active and social enough in other ways that the supermarket was not his only point of human contact.

Besides, not having to leave the house for something insignificant like food saved Aster precious time; time that could be devoted to illustrating volume five of his and Sandy's runaway success. Of course, it could have something to do with the fact that he was currently working on a critical plot point in The Guardian's struggle against their ancient and cunning nemesis; one Pitch Black, the King of Fear and Shadows. Aster had based his character off of the doctor who'd attended him during his stay in the Hospital. Dr. Kozmotis Pitchiner had been a harried and severe man, with the bedside manner of a serial killer, but Aster had appreciated his blunt honesty. He'd actually tracked him down to apologize after having borrowed his likeness for a villain, attempting to explain to the man that it was nothing personal, only the leftover feelings of bitterness and rage misdirected toward the most common face he'd seen during his recovery. Kozmotis had surprised him by laughing him off, telling Aster that his daughter loved the comics and that it was no hardship for him, if it resulted in such popular art. Feeling humbled, Aster had arranged for a complete special edition of the first volume, signed by both him and Sandy to be sent to one Seraphina Pitchiner, as had every volume since. Aster couldn't thank the good Doctor directly, but somehow he felt that the other man had gotten the message anyways.

In fact, Aster is so caught up in the full-page spread of the glorious battle scene he's painstakingly inking that he forgets all about his impending delivery. By the time the lift has brought him back to the main floor, the doorbell has been abandoned in favour of knocking, to the tune of "It's a Small World" of all things. Feeling slightly peeved, perhaps more with himself and his unintentional rudeness then the rudeness of his delivery driver, Aster unlocks the door, wheeling back far enough to clear the swing.

Looking up into the earnest brown gaze, even white small, and messy chocolate hair, Aster lets a friendly greeting fall from his lips, the significance of this meeting not to be recognized for some time.


	2. Ride the Wave and See What I've Become

"Every disability conceals a vocation, if only we can find it, which will 'turn the necessity to glorious gain."  
― C.S. Lewis

The boy Aster has just greeted stands unassuming on his doorstep. He's mostly average; not too tall, on the gangly side with ears just a touch too wide for his thin face. His hair look like it might've seen a brush sometime before puberty had hit, and his oversized hoodie is rumpled and well-worn but clean. The line of his brow is straight, his eyes a touch too large to be truly masculine, and his broad grin is pure Cheshire cat. He looks like any other college age kid working his way through school might look, plain enough to slide completely under the radar if he chose, but not without a certain youthful appeal. Assuming of course, that one was interested in barely-legal little twinks, which Aster could honestly say he hadn't been since he'd been one himself.

"Heeeey! I'm Jack; I drive the getaway car for MaxMarket foods. Wow, nice digs! Must be pretty new, you don't even have your sod down yet." The recently christened 'Jack' pauses in his dialogue long enough to glance over his shoulder at the patch of dirt that will someday soon be Aster's lawn. He whips back around quickly, almost manic smile still in place, the large paper grocery bag held snug against his stomach. Instead of passing over the bag however, Jack instead leans forward slightly, tipping his head to peer past Aster, warm brown eyes catching on the details of Aster's living room. "Let me guess, Mobile Homes Accessible Spaces did the design, right? They do good work! Nice wide halls, modified kitchen, and ooooh, I bet you have one of those neat elevators too! I love those things, and they're so quiet! My sister sneaks into the freezer for ice cream at midnight all the time, and no one's the wiser! Except, y'know for me, cause midnight ice cream isn't cool if it doesn't double as sibling bonding time." Jack blinks, as if suddenly realizing he's been off on a tangent. "So, you have a name? Or am I going to have to call you Hot Aussie Dude for the rest of our acquaintance?"

Aster blinks a bit, somewhat taken aback by both the force of Jack's personality, and the sudden urge to ask the boy when he found time enough to breathe during his diatribes. Fortunately, Aster's mother had pounded proper manners into his head at a young age, which was probably why he discovered himself able to respond in a coherent fashion, despite the parts of his brain currently encouraging him to shut and lock the door to keep out the crazy. Of course, coherent didn't necessarily mean lacking the sarcasm that was practically second nature to him.

"M'name is Aster. Now, you gonna hand over that bag, or you gonna keep on making love to it?"

Jack's face sported a momentary look of seemingly delighted surprise, before he tossed his head back, crowing in delighted laughter.

"I like you! You're witty, that's awesome. Here, have your food; I'll see you next time, mmkay? Thanks for shopping with MaxMarket, blahblahblah. Stay cool!" Jack hands over the bag with absolute care, then bounds down the walkway like a cackling fiend, his footsteps so quick and light that Aster couldn't help wonder if he was actually hovering his way down the drive. Suddenly realizing what the encounter had been missing, Aster finds himself calling out to the kid before he can stop himself.

"Wait, am I not meant to tip?" Jack halts beside his vehicle; an ancient behemoth of a minivan that is comprised of possibly more rust than functioning parts at this point, but may have actually been a navy blue once. Looking back over his shoulder with a casual grin and a dismissive wave of a hand Jack replies.

"Naw, its cool, first time customer special! You can catch me next time, kay?" With a wink and a nod of his chin and absolutely no pause to wait for a response, the boy frolics round the vehicle, hopping into the driver's seat and taking off. Surprisingly he appears to be obeying the rules of the road, at least as far as Aster can tell, green eyes tracking the kid as he cedes the right of way at the stop sign, and then disappears around the corner.

Well, that was way more excitement then Aster usually sees in a day. Wheeling himself into the kitchen to put the groceries away, Aster finds himself wondering if Jack is always so... exuberant in his personal interactions. Well, only one way to find out. Maybe Aster will have to invite company for dinner tonight; the groceries he was putting away would need to be eaten before he could call for Jack to bring him more. Besides, his new table hasn't seen a single drunken poker game yet, which is more shameful then Aster can bear, and truly that situation must be immediately rectified.

Good thing he'd had the forethought to order a baguette for garlic bread, Tia would never forgive him if he'd forgot and tried to feed her his famous homemade alfredo without it.

Sure enough, dinner had been a boisterous affair, with too much red wine and a significant dearth of indoor voices. Cards had been played and jokes had been made, and a rather memorable snapshot had been taken on Aster's phone of Sandy, Tia and Nick all mugging for the camera, cross-eyed and goofy like the kids they'd once been.

Like the kid Jack probably still was, Aster couldn't help but think as he clicked the 'purchase' button at the bottom of the MexMarket webpage, watching the little digital hourglass that signalled his grocery order was processing. A moment later, the screen flipped over to the order confirmation page, which he printed and set aside with the rest of his receipts. A life time of pinching pennies and tracking expenses didn't really allow him to set a single toe outside of his budget; and okay, maybe that budget was three times what it used to be, because hey mortgages were expensive, but the habit remained. Aster certainly wasn't a millionaire, but he didn't live anywhere close to the upper end of his means, the house being his only true extravagance and after the hell of his last flat, he considered it more of a necessary investment. Also, the nice little nest egg he was still squirreling away would see to it that, even if the popularity of the series waned, which it would eventually, either through the fickleness of the audience or its inevitable end, Aster would still be able to maintain a decent standard of living until the next job came along.

Unless of course, he and Sandy started another project together. They hadn't really discussed it with any finality, but Aster knew there were more than a few ideas bouncing around his silent friend's head, and he was sure that it wouldn't take much to breathe life into them through paper and ink. Maybe even in oils; which was still Aster's true passion, even if it was now mostly a hobby instead of a stable source of income. In fact that last oil paintings he had sold had been the ones that he'd done of his friends which had jumpstarted his career as a graphic novelist in the first place; oils that he'd gone and purchased back from the buyers after the first few royalty checks cleared, and kept on arriving regularly and in ever-increasing amounts. He'd tried not to make a big production of giving the paintings to his friends, trying to stick to a simple explanation that the characters deserved to be with the individuals that had inspired them, but he was pretty sure that they'd all understood that Aster had been trying to say thank you in his own gruff, socially retarded way. Thank you for staying, thank you for caring, thank you for being the ones to carry him through, when Aster didn't think he'd ever be able to hold his head up on his own again. They'd all been misty eyed and attempting not to show it, Aster remembered, all four of them failing to be subtle while dabbing away at moist eyes with their shirtsleeves. The portrait of 'The Pooka' who, despite the fur and rabbity features, somehow managed to have a startling amount of similarity to Aster himself now hung in his workshop, a constant reminder and dedication to perseverance in the face of adversity. Or y'know, also because he thought he looked totally badass as a man-sized warrior lagomorph and it was good for his self esteem, sue him.

Stretching his fingers from where he'd been carefully sketching the latest panels, Aster cracked his knuckles, one hand at a time and wheeled away from the table. Outside the large windows that faced the terrace, the evening light had long since completely disappeared, fading carefully into the greyscale of night. Time for all good artists to have their hindsides in bed, for sure. Aster took the lift to the main floor, downing a quick glass of water in the kitchen before making the trek to his bedroom in the opposite corner of the house. In minutes Aster was foaming at the mouth with toothpaste. Taking good care of his unfortunate overbite was always a priority, lest Tia should find cause to complain, loudly, and at length. When finished, his face was washed quickly and his pajamas for the evening were selected. It was awkward work, dressing and undressing. Aster usually stripped to the waist, then made the transfer from sitting in his chair to sitting on the mattress, thankful for young, strong arms. At that point, it was easier to lie back and lift his hips to shimmy in and out of his pants, using his hands to maneuver his inert limbs into the pant legs as required. Once, this used to bother his, or more accurately touching the deadened flesh below his hips disgusted him, and left him feeling shamed for his weakness. Now, it was just another task to be done, like brushing his teeth earlier had been. Perhaps he was still self-conscious, but no more so than he was of the aforementioned overbite, or his slightly-too large ears.

Slightly too large like Jack's had been.

Oh, Aster had been chasing thoughts of Jack around his head the last few days, and thinking of the boy as he wormed his way under the covers and switched off the bedside lamp was just asking for trouble. Aster was far, far too old for the boy, for one. He'd bet money on their being at least a decade between them. Also, gay though he was, Aster had always gone for men more like himself; stronger, broader, more masculine. Jack had been slender, almost dainty, and definitely fey-like, penchant for run-on sentences aside. There was something about the slant of his eyes though, the quirk of his lips that had been haunting Aster, awake and asleep, his distraction obvious enough that Sandy had commented twice during their latest brainstorming session. Aster had denied it of course, but he knew his friends tacit agreement to leave it alone had more to do with Sandy respecting his privacy then the fact that his friend had actually believed Aster's insistences that he was fine. If he wasn't careful, he'd have an overly-enthusiastic Tia trying to 'glamify' him again, the way she did every time Aster had even hinted at finding someone attractive. Not that he didn't appreciate her efforts, but Aster was a simple guy, and anyone he'd dated would just have to live with that. Getting used to the permanently ink-stained fingertips and the fact that Aster usually forgot to get a haircut until it was long enough to fall into his eyes every ten seconds, and even then he was more likely to pull it into a ponytail and keep working as opposed to fixing it was all part of the charm. No Aster would forever be easy to please and a man of simple tastes. Jack would probably get it, if the decrepit minivan and decidedly lived-in hoodie were any indication.

Jack again. Aster had to stop it, before he headed into dangerous territory. Resolving to put the thought of lively brown eyes out of his head, Aster closed his eyes and prepared to sleep. Besides, the grocery order was placed; he'd see Jack tomorrow, anyways.

The Dream did not come that night, and when the next afternoon found a slim hand knocking to the tune of 'Mary Had a Little Lamb,' Aster couldn't stop the enthusiastic smile from spreading as he went to open the door.


	3. I'm Dying to Be What You're Seeing In Me

Later than I thought this would be, my continuous apologies. Hope it's worth the wait!

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"Make your pain productive and you can transform tragedy into triumph."  
― Jaeda DeWalt

Aster tried to wipe the please grin from his face before opening the door, but he knew he'd failed completely as soon as his eyes lit onto Jack. The boy was wearing a grey hoodie today, too-long sleeves falling over his hands, obscuring the delicate spread of his palms from Aster's greedy gaze. Jack's hair was more riotous than usual, like he'd been combing his fingers through it continuously. Which, perhaps he had, but Aster didn't particularly care about anymore once he found himself caught and pinned but that warm, friendly gaze. Jack's smile was a thing of perfection, with his even white teeth, thin but luscious lips, and elfish glint in his eyes. Aster kind of wanted to wrap the boy up in his arms and find new and wonderful ways to make him smile like that all the time, so it never faded.

Or wrap him up in his bed sheets perhaps, that would work too. Aster had been assailed by a very persistent and creative daydream in the shower that morning, and now it was all he could do to focus on the reality of the moment and stop imagining Jack as he'd been in his fantasy; naked and wet and needy, his mouth lush and his fingers curious. Personally, Aster blamed it on two and a half years of celibacy. After the accident, Aster's self confidence had been so low that he'd assumed his dating prospects were henceforth nonexistent; now he knew better but he'd been so busy, first with the comic and then the house and the move that he'd honestly forgotten all about the dating scene. Which was very unlike him, he'd never lacked for attractive male company before. Now however, he knew that he could never be satisfied with the string of casual relationships he'd maintained in the past. No, if Aster dated now, he'd be looking for commitment. For the first time ever Aster had put down roots, had allowed his life to stabilize into a routine that he enjoyed. Five years ago he would have rejected the notion outright, because Aster was an artist and artists did no compromise their integrity for things like owning homes and steady paychecks. The Aster of today however knew that he'd compromised nothing to get where he was, it was only his perspective that had changed. Now, Aster was ready to be a proper boyfriend, not just an easy fling. Which was probably perfect, because he had no clue what he was doing, and Jack was young enough to still be in the same boat. Ah hell, he must be a special kind of dirty old man, for sure.

"Heya hot stuff, now tell me you were just sitting around, waiting for me to brighten your day?" Aster wasn't entirely ashamed of it, but he had been. Allowing Jack's voice to chase him out of his thoughts, Aster finally slowed his pleased smile to take up residence on his face.

"I never admit to anything that could be held against me in a court of law." Aster drawled with flirtatious wink, fascinated with the slight pink that rose to Jack's cheeks. The boy looked both pleased and slightly overwhelmed by the response, and for a moment Aster was afraid he'd overdone it, pushed too hard for only their second meeting. Maybe the boy wasn't gay, just a natural flirt? Aster would feel horrible if he'd misread things. But Jack relaxed then minutely, an easy grin on his lips.

"Of all the things I could think of to hold against you, your words wouldn't be one." Jack's reply was accompanied by an obviously overdone eyebrow waggle, the tone deliberately teasing in a way that, while suggestive, could easily be passed off as a joke. The boy was testing the waters then, Aster couldn't blame him, not when he'd been doing to same himself.

"Is there a list then? I'll have to see it sometime." And that there was a risky statement; a bit more open and full of intent than their previous banter. Jack's response now would make or break his chances with the boy, Aster knew.

"I think you need to buy a fella dinner first, don't you?" Jack looked flushed and perhaps a little bit startled at his own forwardness, but Aster found it endearing.

Endearing and so sublimely wonderful that he almost forgot to breathe. It was a good thing then that his brain could work on autopilot before his silence managed to ruin everything.

"You should come by this Saturday then, for the Barbie." Jack blinked once in confusion.

"Okay, I assume you don't mean the doll, right?" Aster couldn't help the chuckle that escaped; it was true that he was so used to the company of his friends he forgot that his occasional use of Australian colloquialisms sometimes flew right over other peoples head's. He'd known his crew for so many years that they'd long since figured out what he'd meant, just like he'd picked up sign language for Sandy, or gotten used to North's creative Russian cursing, or starting keeping makeup remover on hand to take off the colourful lip prints Tia left on his cheek at every encounter. They were family, you made allowances and formed habits, and it's just the way things are. Jack didn't have the luxury of familiarity though, and Aster hoped his merriment hadn't offended the boy any.

"Naw Jack, barbecue. Y'know, a man hovering over an open flame, cooking piles of raw meat, drinking beer and grunting like a caveman. Nick usually throws it every summer, but I've got a house now, not a flat, so there's no excuse not to break in that patio. You should come, Tia'd love you. Just don't let her talk you into any of her more exotic tea blends, some of them are for 'digestive cleansing,' which really means you'll be on the can for weeks." Aster snapped his mouth shut with a click, horrified by his sudden Jack-style tangent, afraid that he'd possibly scared the kid off, but Jack was laughing, not fleeing, so he must still be in the clear.

"Man, it sounds awesome. Is that why you have, like, three times more food than one man should be able to eat?" Jack gestured to the quartet of bags on the doorstep, each full to bursting.

"Yep," Aster nodded, "Homemade patties, homemade buns, homemade secret sauce, every possible vegetable topping known to man, and my ma's secret recipe potato salad. What else?" Jack's eyes were a little wide by the end, giving the other male a slightly star-struck look.

"Okay forget dinner, I'll marry you tonight if you feed me like that all the time!" Aster barked out another laugh unable to help it at the eager look on Jack's face.

"Let me guess; hollow leg, you eat your mama out of house and home?" Jack didn't need to reply verbally, his sheepish grin said it all. "No worries then, come on by 'round four-ish, if you're not working, or studying or something. You are a student, yeah?" Aster went out on a limb with the guess, trusting his gut. Jack's quick nod only confirmed it.

"Yeah, physics major. Thermodynamics is awesome. What gave it away?" Jack cast a glance over himself, like he'd somehow missed a nametag somewhere announcing his status to the world.

"Nothing, you just looked it. First year?" The quirk of Jack's lips was somewhat rueful.

"Fourth year actually, I graduate in the spring. It's the baby face though, right? Man, what I wouldn't give to grow a proper beard or something." Jack stroked his chin wistfully, and Aster felt simultaneously bad for the unintentional sleight, and grateful that Jack was a little older then he'd previously thought; early twenties instead of late teens.

"Hey, my bad there, don't go ruining a perfectly good face with a chin-full of whiskers." That put a smile back on Jack's face, the boy eyeing his hair with a mischievous smirk, crossing his arms confidently.

"Speaking of age, there's no way you're old enough to be a silver fox. Premature grey?" Aster nodded, it had bothered him a bit in his teens when it had started, but he quickly grew to like the uniqueness of it, and now thought his thick, wavy hair to be one of his best features.

"Yeah, I might be staring the big three-zero in the face soon, but I'll deny it if anybody asks." Jack giggles a bit, his eyes lingering in silence on Aster's face just a moment too long before he seems to remember that he's still on the clock.

"Oh, hell, I gotta run before Ms, Partridge's dairy spoils. Saturday? Can I bring anything?" Food, drink, shiny things to distract the tea-lady?" Aster can't fight the almost-manic grin that spreads on his lips as Jack bounds down the driveway, calling back the final words over his shoulder as he reaches his vehicle.

"Naw, just you Jackie, just you is good." With one more incandescent grin, Jack climbs behind the wheel and is gone, disappearing around the corner. He seems to suck a little bit of the colour from the world as he leaves, and Aster curses himself as a love struck fool while he carefully gathers the brown paper bags off the doorstep and ferries them inside. Oh well, nothing for it. He'd asked the boy out, and Jack and said yes, and on Saturday Aster would have all evening to wow the boy with both is culinary skills and his witty repartee, and if for some reason one or both of those things failed, well his friends were entertaining enough to ensure Jack had a good time regardless. It was a foolproof plan, what could possibly go wrong?

Aster laboured under that assumption until that afternoon's brainstorming session with Sandy ended less-than productively, the other signing a testy 'spill it!' before the shorter blonde crossed his arms, glowering balefully at Aster in a clear effort to get him to fess up. Okay, Aster could admit his head wasn't really in the game today, and hadn't been since he'd met Jack, but he'd thought at least he was doing a better job of faking it then this. He contemplating both lying or refusing to answer, but then changed his mind, knowing that his friend deserved and honest answer.

"I, well, there's this boy..." Aster trailed off, suddenly unsure as to how to proceed with the sentence and still make rational sense. There's a boy, he's much younger, and I've only met his twice but I can't stop thinking about him. There's this boy, and he smiles like and angel, and I want to press our smiles together and see if they fit. So I met this boy, and he makes me laugh, and my stomach does that funny thing like when you're on a roller coaster, and I don't know what to do about it.

So, there's a boy.

Aster's still struggling for words when the sever expression falls of Sandy's face, a blinding grin taking over. He reaches out and pats Aster on the hand, and says nothing, and Aster sags a bit in relief, knowing that somehow his friend understood, even without words. Sandy had always been good at that, though.

"You'll get to meet him, I invited him Saturday." Sandy nods at Aster, as if he expected nothing less. Relieved, Aster finds himself blurting out the other issue that had been nagging at him the past few days.

"Hey Sandy, do you think the internet would tell me how to have sex without legs? I mean, I can think of a couple things, but maybe someone's figured out something more. I'll bet YouTube would have something, I mean, isn't everything on YouTube now?" Sandy's eyes widen comically for a moment, and then he laughs, a silent, full-bellied motion. He carries on for long enough that Aster starts to fidget a bit, before he scowls and smacks his friend on the arm. "Y'know I'm serious here, if things go well then at some point this is going to come up!" This just sends the other male into another round of chuckles, and Aster settles for tearing bits of paper out of his notebook, crumpling them up and throwing them at Sandy's open mouth until he stops.

'I'm sure _something_ will be coming up.' Sandy signs to Aster, the moment he composes himself to do so. Aster isn't sure how anybody could make innocent hand motions so salacious, but somehow Sandy manages well enough to make Aster blush.

"Never mind, I'll Google it myself." Aster finds himself mumbling, somewhat mortified. He should have known better he supposes, but he seemed to always forget that behind Sandy's patient exterior hide quite the little spitfire. The next sentence Sandy signs however has Aster choking on his own spit.

"I'm not calling Doctor Pitchiner to help me get laid, Sandy! If I want it bad enough I'll figure it out! Now enough, please, if you have a heart, you'll forget I said anything!" Sandy takes pity on him then finally, gesturing to their latest storyboard, indicating the conversation was closed and it was back to business as usual. Aster admittedly found it easier to focus after that once the embarrassment faded, although thoughts of Jack never totally left his mind. But if he spent the rest of the time working with the slightest upturn at the corner of his lips, well, who was Sandy going to tell?

The week flew by, Aster sketching and inking and cleaning and prepping and generally doing everything he did on a regular basis, plus prepared to have his home invaded by four other lively human beings. The night of the barbecue had to be perfect, and Aster pulled out all the stops. He'd had a case of the gang's favorite beer delivered, had the yard service finally lay the sod, made sure the grill was connected to the gas line and ready to go, and spent more time then he cared to think about fretting that something might go wrong, that maybe Jack would be uncomfortable, or Aster would say something dumb, but Sandy's quiet reassurance every afternoon was enough to ground him. He'd be okay, things would be awesome, Jack and everyone else would have fun, and he'd get that second date, no problem.

And so, on Saturday at 3:55 pm, when someone knocked on Aster's door to the tune of 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,' Aster was thrilled to open the door to one very special young man.


End file.
